In Flight
by i-really-heichou
Summary: Mikasa as a flight attendant and Jean as a frequent flier for business, and he often collects points for free trips so he sees his mother periodically and the two often run into each other on these smaller flights.


May 12th, 2013  
Seat 12B  
Flight 589

"Mr. Kirschtein, for the last time, we don't serve peanuts on this flight."

He takes small pleasure in the way her lips fight against the brief smile that skips across her face, and the one that lingers in her eyes, warm, familiar with a matching sense of cordial professionalism.

"Besides," she adds, fingers flitting towards the red neckerchief knotted at her throat. Mikasa Ackerman reties is, ducking her chin. "You're allergic to peanuts.

He matches her smile with a grin of his own and teases her, saying, "Yes but that means you have to perform mouth to mouth."

"More like stab you with an EpiPen."

Jean leans back in his chair and tilts his head to look up at her. "I could get into that."

"I'm sure you could." Mikasa shifts her weight from foot to foot and fixes her hands in front of her, cheeks darkening with a hint of color, and she asks if he is going to see his mother this weekend.

"She misses me," he says softly, blushing when he imagines Mikasa teasing him for being so affectionate. "She hasn't been feeling well, and I didn't make it two weeks ago when I told her-"

"Your mother will be happy to see you, Mr. Kirschtein." Mikasa gives a slight bow. "Tell her I said hi...of course, on behalf of all Ackerman National Airlines."

* * *

July 20th, 2013  
Seat 12B  
Flight 593

"You can sit upfront today, Mr. Kirschtein." Mikasa points to the front row and then looks back at him, and he swears he forgets how to breathe, or something like that. "There aren't many passengers today..." but her sentence trails off when he shakes his head and motions to the window beside him.

"I'm like a cranky old man, Miss Ackerman." Mikasa notices he's not wearing his suit and tie get-up and assumes he's going to go visit his mother again. "I like my wine, my day time television, and my seat on the plane."

Her nose wrinkles at the thought, but Jean urges her to sit beside him while he slides the window open and the sun pours in.

"I'm joking," he says. Jean leans back in his seat and touches her shoulder, convincing her to lean forward. He nearly dies when her hair brushes along his face. "I like this seat because of this."

Outside, the sun is setting, bleeding against the white canvas of clouds. Mikasa presses her hand against the window and inhales sharply, head tilted at an angle, and for once, he's close enough to hear her say, "Wow."

* * *

July 28th, 2014  
Seat 12B  
Flight 603

"We give them to the kids," she explains, pausing to pinch the pin between her fingers and show him the plastic wings and stars and stripes. "Especially the ones who really hated the flight in the first place. It's cute, you can see their whole face light up."

The plane gives a sudden jolt, turbulence at its worst, and both of Jean's hands grasp the arm rests beside him. She can hear the gasp lodged in his throat and catch a glimpse of the shaky smile he tries to forge, and when Mikasa taps his arm, he nearly jumps out of his seat. Her hand folds over his, calluses against scars, and she drags her thumb over his knuckles and scales her hand higher and higher until her fingertips linger over his chest. The heel of Mikasa's palm falls flat against his heart, every stuttering beat drumming against her skin and with the other hand, she lifts the pin to his shirt and fastens it on to the fabric.

"There," she murmurs, smoothing the creases she left behind. "That's better."

* * *

August 10th, 2013  
Flight Attendants Only  
Flight 611

The seatbelt light blinks on, yet the two of them are behind the curtain, pressed against one another, with the sound of their drawn out breathing echoing between them. He pushes his hands up the length of her skirt, drawing the fabric with them, and he leans in, only for his fingers to catch along nylon and a groan to slip past his lips.

"You're wearing-" Jean pauses between words to accent his frustration with hard edged kisses. "-_fucking stockings._"

"Uniform," is all she says, pulling him closer by a fistful of hair. When Mikasa pulls pack, it's all yellow fluorescent lights and the flush of his face and her thighs tightening around his hand, and she clears her throat, moves back and exclaims, "Seatbelts, Mr. Kirschtein. Allow me to escort you back to your assigned seat."

* * *

August 21st, 2014  
Flight Attendants Only  
Flight 619

Jean is lightweight.

A few glasses of wine and a bag of complimentary blue tortilla chips and he's gone, with a lopsided grin and loose limbs. He sits in the fold out seat, (her seat, really) laughing at something she said with the stem of the plastic wine glass tucked between his fingers.

"Okay," he says, hands out as if to tell her to wait and prepare herself for what he will say next. "Get this: Did you always want to be a flight attendant?"

Mikasa sips Merlot from the bottle, and looks at him through lowered lashes.

"Yes," she exclaims with alcohol and confidence brimming on her lips. "That's exactly what I wanted to be. A flight attendant. In fact, in the second grade, I stood in front of the class and told everyone that I wanted to spend the rest of working for Ackerman National Airline." Mikasa grimaces before pressing the mouth of her bottle to her own, and says, almost breathless with wine slipping down her throat, "I wanted to be a teacher."

He bats the sleepiness and drunk haze away with a few blinks and looks at her, really looks at her, with his lips pursed and his brows furrowed. "What happened."

Mikasa snorts, because as much as it's true, something always has to happen; she didn't fall into the profession out of passion. Simply familial convenience through her CEO cousin. She looks away from him for a moment, settles for picking the embroidered symbol on her skirt and murmurs, "My parents died in a plane crash," low enough that he catches her words by a thread.

Her shoulders tense involuntarily, bracing herself for the _I'm sorry_, or _That's terrible,_ and it seems like a layover and a half between them before he pries the bottle from her hand, takes a long, drawn out sip. "So you decided to become _a_ _flight attendant_," he exclaims, words thick with more curiosity than judgment.

Mikasa lifts her chin and focuses her gaze on anything but his eyes. "My cousin is Levi Ackerman." She turns. "Right there, that picture on the wall. He came to the funeral and told me it would be, quote, 'a shitty sense of fucked up irony, but I could give you some work to support yourself and Eren.'"

Jean swirls the bottle. "Your brother, right?"

"Adopted." She motions for him to pass the wine, and he does so without hesitation. "The Jaegers let me stay with them until I was able to get back on my feet."

"Does it scare you, then?" Jean asks; he wants nothing more than to reach over and cradle her hands in his, but instead watches her tip more wine into her mouth. "Flying and all knowing what could go wrong? Knowing what happened to your parents?"

"No." She coughs when the liquid runs down the wrong pipe, and he instinctively presses his hand to her back. "Because I still think I can see them from up here."

* * *

August 31st, 2013  
Flight 627

"Jean..."

It's silly to think that his name belongs on her lips, under her tongue, scratched and bleeding on the walls of her corpse, but she says it all the same, and pulls her hand back from touching his shoulder. Jean is wearing a suit, a different one from the types he wears to work. This one is crisp, freshly pressed and dark, as dark as her hair as dark as the expression on his face, black like mourning. The plane has landed and he is the last to get off, standing center in the aisle as if he wants to move, but cannot find a reason to do so.

She calls him again, this time by his last name. "Mr. Kirschtein..."

"My mother is dead," he murmurs, his voice as empty as bones. Jean's hand curl into themselves and he tries his best not to cry, not to break down, or he'll have to pick up all the pieces again once more. "I have another flight in ten minutes on the other side of the airport, and my mother is dead."

Mikasa flinches; although the words aren't meant for her, they strike like a whip. She snakes his arms over his shoulders before he can protest and tugs him, inch by inch into her until he nearly collapses into his grasp. The sob is broken and childlike and raw, and Mikasa presses on the nape of his neck and urges him to rest his face on her shoulder.

She thinks of how it's okay to not be okay sometimes, and how they crash and burn as things and people and what little between often do. She sways, one foot then the next and he follows, hands slipping down to grip at her waist, and maybe it's best to keep one's feet on the ground every now and then as the planes overhead roar by.


End file.
